The Four
by Rosebug
Summary: Each of them was prepared. They all wanted this. The son of a noble disgraced. A young wizard weighed down by hope. An urchin boy who deserved no second chances. And a girl neither starved nor stuffed. They were prepared, yes; they thought so. But fate had other ideas.
1. Prologue: The Cycle of Violence

Prologue

The Cycle of Violence

Anders saw it coming before the others. That in itself was strange. Not that he wasn't a good guard. But he was a young man in a small city, and his attention wandered time to time. Though Eoam was the main town on Beirland, the largest island off the south-western coast of Alagaesia, Anders felt he was too big for it. Perhaps it was the magic of the world that opened his eyes at that moment. All Anders knew was that something odd was going on.

He yawned as he glanced up at the sky. That was when he saw it—a light on the horizon, flying closer and closer. At first he thought it was a star, but the twinkling was too much, more like a flashing.

"Balfour," Anders said, looking sidelong at the man next to him. "You see that?"

"What?"

"That light."

Balfour squinted at the sky. "The star?"

"That's no star. It's moving. Fast."

"Shooting star?"

"It's flashing."

Balfour scratched his head. "I'll tell the captain," he said.

"Right."

As Balfour strode off towards the captain's quarters, Anders watched the object come closer. Was it some sort of magic? He straightened his back and brushed his hand over the hilt of the sword strapped to his belt. He'd never used a sword, except in practice. A sort of anticipation clenched at his chest, a sort of stifling he'd never felt before, and he couldn't tell whether it was eagerness or fear.

Within minutes, Captain Freeman was trudging up the muddy street towards Anders, Balfour not far behind. The captain had in his hand a small spyglass.

"Where's this star, then, soldier?" he asked, putting the spyglass to his eye.

"Not a star, Sir. But it's there." Anders pointed at the flying thing, and Captain Freeman focused in on it.

He stayed staring at it for a long moment, then slowly lowered the spyglass.

"Call out the guard, soldier," he said, turning to glare at Balfour. "I want every archer here at this spot. Now!"

"Yes, Sir!" Balfour saluted and ran off to collect his fellows.

"What is it, Captain?" Anders asked.

As soon as the words left his lips, he wished he could suck them back in again. Captain Freeman's eyes met his, and Anders knew from the way the captain held them wide open that he was afraid. And men will go to any lengths to hide fear.

But the captain didn't yell. He didn't hit him or order him fifty lashes.

Instead, he looked at Anders and said, "I don't know. I don't."

* * *

It took an hour for all the guards, off-duty and on-, to be rounded up and brought to Anders' post. By then, the flying thing had crossed over them and had begun circling above the city.

Even stranger, it was talking. Not in the common tongue, no, nor in Dwarvish, Elvish, or the language of the Urgals. It was speaking in a language none of them knew, but it was a distinctly human voice.

Anders could see it now, see it true. It was flying low to boom out its strange words. It looked like no star he'd ever seen. Indeed, it was more akin to a bird, but it was too big, and its movements weren't from nature. It glided above them, its long, outstretched wings never flapping, and, if he looked closely, he could see the light of the torches reflecting off its underbelly.

"By the gods!" Balfour said as it swept lower.

The soldiers all eyed it, drawing their bows and nocking arrows.

There was sweat on Captain Freeman's brow when Anders looked to him.

"Oh, blast it," the captain said as it took another dive at them. "Shoot it! Shoot it down!"

Anders knew it was futile. The thing was made of metal; that much was obvious. It was not alive. Their arrows might pierce its sides, but they would never kill it. All the same, he took aim with the rest.

"It won't die!" Balfour shouted after a few volleys.

"Magic!" Captain Freeman said. "All those who can use magic, shoot that thing down!"

Five guards ran forward, towards each other, knocking soldiers out of their way as they went. When at last they met, they formed a circle and began chanting. Anders sent arrow after arrow at the metal giant, waiting for the magic-users to cast their spell.

After a few seconds, a great golden ball of fire appeared in the center of their circle. It shot straight at the flying thing. A huge crashing sound thundered through the sky as the object exploded.

Pieces of blazing metal flew down towards them. Anders dove to avoid a great hunk of flame. It struck the ground where he had just been standing.

He got to his feet and looked back into the sky. It was empty of everything but the stars. There was no flying metal thing, but neither were there cheers. The guards looked to their captain.

"Good work, men," Freeman said. "It's over."

Anders was still looking up. When his eyes fell to the western sky, he took a step back.

"Captain," he said. No one seemed to hear. They were preparing to leave, putting away their bows.

"Captain!" Anders backed up several more steps, hitting another guard. This time they heard. This time they turned to look. This time they saw.

"By the gods," Balfour said again.

There, on the horizon, were thousands more of the metal beasts, flying towards the guards.

"Captain?" Anders asked. "Orders?"

The captain said something in a small voice Anders couldn't hear.

"What?"

His eyes met the captain's.

"Run," said Freeman.

The guards stared at him.

"Sir?" Anders said.

Spittle flew from the captain's mouth as he opened it once more and screamed, "Run!"

Freeman turned and sprinted away.

Chaos broke loose then. The soldiers followed their captain's lead, running from the monsters, from their duty.

Anders would have liked to say that he stayed to fight the impossible battle. He would have liked to have been a hero in his last moments. But the flying things found him fleeing with all the rest.

* * *

**Eragon**

_Ready?_ Eragon said.

The corners of Saphira's mouth turned upwards in an imitation of a human smile._ I should be asking you_. _You look as if you're about to face off against a hundred Kull without magic or weapon. _

_Can you blame me? It's been so long._

_You still love her._

_Of course I still love her! And you still love Firnen. Why aren't you nervous, too?_

Saphira gave one of her claws a delicate lick. _Because I am me._

_Right. Don't know why I bothered asking._

A great rumbling came from her chest, and Eragon recognized it as laughter.

_Do not worry. I'll be with you, _she told him.

He nodded and put a hand on her leg, then took a deep breath and spoke the incantation over the mirror.

And there appeared the face of the elf queen, his fellow rider. A rush of warmth took hold of him when he saw her.

"Arya," Eragon said.

"Eragon."

"It is good to see you again."

"And you," she answered. "Greetings, Saphira."

_Arya,_ Saphira said.

_Saphira!_ Firnen projected his deep voice to them.

Saphira's head crept closer to the mirror's surface as she saw her mate.

_Firnen._ Her reply was deliberately calm, but Eragon sensed a deep excitement in her.

"I assume I know why you're contacting me," Arya said. "I'm glad you've at last found a resting place."

"Hopefully more than that," Eragon said. "With good fortune, Nyr Vroengard will become a new home, both to me and to the eggs."

"I wish you that fortune, then."

"Thank you."

There was a moment of silence between them. He would be lying if he said it wasn't uncomfortable. He hadn't spoken to Arya since he left Alagaesia. In other words, it had been over a year. A long year. A year spent at sea with no company but that of Cuaroc, the elves who had accompanied him, and, of course, Saphira. And now, here he was before Arya again, and he couldn't think of anything to say to her. He wished he could reach out to her, touch her, even for a moment. But scrying did have its limitations.

_Eragon_, Saphira said at last, and he came back to his senses.

He cleared his throat and said, "I'm sending Blodgarm back to Alagaesia to collect the eggs and Eldunarya."

She hesitated, then said, "Of course."

"Is something wrong?" Eragon asked.

Firnen answered in place of his rider. _Why are you not coming yourself to take them? _

Eragon looked at him. "Saphira and I must stay here. For the construction and for the raising of the new generation of riders."

_We cannot return to Alagaesia_, Saphira said.

_Then we will come to you_, Firnen said, shifting his weight into a crouching position, as though ready to fly over right away.

"Firnen." Arya rested her hand on his head. "We, too, must stay where we are." She looked at Eragon, met his eyes. "As much as we might wish otherwise."

"I'm sorry, Firnen," Eragon said. "Maybe one day we'll all meet again."

_We will_, Saphira added.

Firnen blinked at her.

"Eragon," Arya said. "Before you go, there is something more. You may not have heard…."

"What is it?" Eragon asked.

"There's been an attack. At Eoam. Everyone there is dead, even the civilians. No one knows who did it, but there are rumors that towns nearby saw flashing lights and explosions."

"Explosions? Was it magic?"

Arya shook her head. "I don't know. But they also found strange metal contraptions scattered around the city."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that trouble is rising once again," Arya said. "I think we shall need those eggs more quickly than we thought."

Eragon looked at Saphira.

"What do you say about this?"

_We cannot wait for the Urgals and the dwarves to hatch their eggs. If something is threatening Alagaesia again, there must be more dragon riders to meet the challenge._

Eragon nodded. "I agree. Arya, could you send a representative of the elves to meet with Blodgarm and take a few eggs back to Ellesmera?"

"You would send the eggs to the elves before your own people?"

"If this truly is a threat, it would be nice to have riders who know what they're doing, who already have knowledge of magic and skill with the sword. If the eggs do not hatch for anyone in Du Weldenvarden, send them out to human cities second."

"And how many eggs should we take?" she asked. "You should be the one to choose, as you will be the one to train them."

His stomach jumped at the thought of teaching. But he would not let his fears affect his reasoning. "How about four? That seems enough."

"Four sounds like a good number to start with," Arya said.

They looked at each other for a long moment.

"That's settled, then," Eragon said.

"Yes."

"Arya…." He trailed off. _I miss you_ was what he wanted to say, but he couldn't seem to get the words out.

"I know," she said. He glanced at her face, then gave her a small smile.

They said their farewells, and Eragon ended the magic.

_We'd best start construction fast if we're to have students here_, he said to Saphira.

_Yes_, she said. _I wonder who will be chosen_.

_I don't know. All we know is that there will be four. _


	2. Chapter One: The Rule

Chapter One

The Rule

"Arya Drottning," Dunei said, bowing low. Arya waited for him to straighten before speaking. The past year as queen had taught her always to look into the eyes of the people with whom she spoke. And Dunei was a special case. It was not that she didn't trust him. No. Not quite that. Indeed, he was the one who did not trust her. Or, at least, trust her to do her job well. There were a few lords among the elves who had not wanted her to become their queen. There were those who thought her too young, too inexperienced. Dunei was one of them.

"Lord Dunei. You have news?"

"I do, Drottning." He paused a moment, then continued. "We have taken the eggs across Du Weldenvarden. We have tested all those willing to give up family and friend to become a rider. And…," he trailed off.

"None of the dragons has found a partner?"

"Not one."

"Well then, it is the humans' turn, is it not?" she said.

"But, Drottning, the humans cannot—"

"My lord." Arya's voice was firm, but not harsh. "You will recall that it was Eragon, a _human_ rider, who defeated Galbatorix and saved Alagaesia."

Lord Dunei set his jaw and said, slowly, carefully, "An exception to prove the rule."

"I've never found much weight in that expression," Arya said. "If there is an exception, then the rule is wrong."

"We need strong riders now, and elves—"

"It is the dragons' choice, Lord Dunei, not yours. They decide what we need. And we cannot force them."

"But—"

"Would you have me keep the eggs here, waiting years, decades, centuries even, for the right elf to be born?"

Dunei clenched his teeth and said, "No, Drottning."

"I am glad to see you are reasonable," she said. "Send the eggs to the human cities."

"Yes, Drottning."

He turned and walked away from her, not waiting to be dismissed.

Arya closed her eyes, long and hard, leaning back in her chair.

_You handled that well,_ said a voice in her mind.

_Firnen. Where are you?_

An image appeared to her: a green dragon, flying high above the trees of the forest.

_You were listening?_ she asked.

_I'm always listening._

_Of course._

_You did the right thing,_ he said.

_Do you remember anything about being in your egg? About choosing me?_

_I do not know. I remember a sense of warmth, a light. And then I opened my eyes and saw you. _

_I see._

_Do not worry. The eggs will choose the right riders. They always have. I did._

She smiled.


	3. Chapter Two: The Prisoner's Son

Chapter Two

The Prisoner's Son

It was dark and dank in the prisons. The smell of mold filled the air, along with the steady dripping noise of leaking water hitting cold stone. Tyr wrinkled his nose as he walked towards the farthest cell. They were disgraceful, these conditions. The new queen should have given his father a room fit for a noble of his high status, not this pit. Better yet, she should have let him remain in his own house, not caged him at all. Just because he had been a supporter of the old king, Galbatorix. It wasn't fair.

When Tyr saw his father, his fury deepened, as it always did on these visits. The blackness of the dungeon had eaten away at him, hollowed out his face and eyes. Without a razor to contain it, his beard had grown ragged. His hair had turned white and brittle, like an old man's. And he no longer stood straight, proud, as he once had.

Tyr stopped in front of the bars that separated them.

"Father," he said.

"Tyr." His father's voice was the only thing about him that had remained strong.

"I brought you something," Tyr whispered. He glanced over his shoulder at the guards, standing far away down the long hall. Then, from the pouch at his side, he drew a lock pick. "I bought it in the market. I thought—"

"You thought to have me killed?" His father's eyes were hard.

"No, you could escape!"

"Don't be a fool, boy; put it away."

"But Father—"

"Now."

Tyr clenched his teeth and pushed down the lump that was forming in his throat. "Please, Father. I want you to come home."

"If I picked this lock and escaped, I would be on the run my whole life. I would never come home. As it stands, all I have to do is wait for this new queen, this Nasuada, to show weakness and pardon me."

"But—"

"Enough."

Tyr squeezed his hand around the pick. Then his shoulders sagged, and he returned it to its pouch.

"Good. Now, listen to me," his father said, leaning closer to the bars. "I called you here for a reason. My men tell me that there is an elf in Uru'baen—or 'Ilirea,' as the bitch names it."

"Yes, I heard that, too," said Tyr. "They say he has an—"

"An egg, yes. A dragon egg. Tyr, listen: they will be testing the children to see if it hatches. It must choose you."

Tyr's eyes widened. "But—"

"You are fifteen now; it is time for you to take up responsibilities. You have been trained in swordplay all your life. You are strong. I know it will choose you."

Tyr couldn't think of anything to say. His father never gave compliments, not to anyone. But he had just called Tyr strong.

"I—" he began.

"You will do this. If you want to help free me, you will. Ever since the rebels killed King Galbatorix, our family has been spat on. We've lost all the glory the king gave us, all the power. With a rider in the family, we will get it back."

Tyr was silent for a long moment. At last, he asked, "If I do this, Father, if I become a rider, will I ever see you again?"

The corners of his father's mouth turned up for the briefest of moments. It happened so quickly that Tyr wasn't sure if it had, in fact, happened at all.

"Yes, Tyr," he said. "I promise."

"Then I'll try."

"You won't try," his father said. "You will do it."

"Yes," said Tyr. "I'll do it."


	4. Chapter Three: The Tool of Magic

Chapter Three

The Tool of Magic

"You remember your lessons?" Trianna asked, touching his shoulder.

Ilian nodded.

"And you remember who taught you?"

"You and mother."

"Yes. The two best spellcasters in all of Surda. So why worry?"

Ilian resisted the urge to bite his lip and said, "I've read about dragons. No one knows how they choose their riders. What if it doesn't want me?"

"Tell me true, little brother," said Trianna. "Do you love me?"

Ilian's eyes widened at the question. "Yes! But—"

"Then you will do this for me."

"But why do you want me to leave?" he blurted out.

She sighed. "I don't want you to leave. But I do want you to be a rider. And you can't do that here."

"Why do I have to be a rider?"

"Don't whine, Ilian," Trianna said, even though he hadn't been. "You're nearly twelve. Act your age."

He clenched his fists and tried to ignore the burning behind his eyes. And when he opened his mouth again, his voice was well-controlled. "Please. Tell me why I have to be a rider. I'm nearly twelve. I'm old enough to understand."

She studied him for a long moment. Finally, she said, "I suppose you are. You know where I've been the past few years?"

"With the Varden," he said. "Fighting Galbatorix."

"Yes. I was fighting, at the head of Du Vrangr Gata, with the great dragon rider Eragon." The way she said it chafed against Ilian's ears. Ever since he'd heard the story of Eragon's rise to power, he had wanted to meet him. But Trianna spat his name. "And what thanks do I get? None. Absolutely none. I should be in Ilirea, at Nasuada's side! I should be with King Orrin, advising him! And yet I am here."

_With me_, Ilian almost said.

"If you become a rider, Ilian, little brother, our family would be revered! If you won't do it for me, do it for mother. It will make her proud to see her son become one of the most powerful magicians in Alagaesia."

Ilian glanced back at their house. It was a small thing, made of wood and thatching. Inside, their mother would be cooking dinner, whistling as she always did. Would it really make her happy for Ilian to leave?

"Please." Trianna added. The way she said it made Ilian look into her eyes. It was not an afterthought, a comment thrown out to help convince him. It was a plea. Trianna, his sister, was begging him.

"All right," he said at last.

"You'll do it?"

He hesitated. Then: "Yes."

Trianna hugged him for the first time in years. It was stiff, awkward, but to Ilian it felt warm.


	5. Chapter Four: The Street Rat

Chapter Four

The Street Rat

Caelan knew he was being followed. On the streets, you best learn that quick if you don't want to end up with a knife in your back and an empty coin pouch. Not that Caelan had any coin to steal. And even if he did, he'd not keep it in a pouch. He was no fool.

He knew he was being followed, and he didn't much care. Because he also knew who was doing the following. So when he came into the alley, he did it on purpose.

The streets had a hierarchy, a sort of class system of their own, separate from that of the nobles and peasants the rest of Alagaesia was rooted to. In it, there were the families and there were the singles. The families: gangs of rag-tag boys and girls, urchins all, come together under a big protector, a "father." They looked out for each other, the father and the children did. Got food, kept watch. Spied on the other families. The families kept their territory and fought for it. And when a new family sprang up, it was at the bottom of the hierarchy.

Then you had your singles. Mostly runts, too weak or too sick to be seen as useful to a family. Marked for death from the moment they're cast out.

But Caelan was not a normal single. He chose to stay apart, live alone. He chose it, and he refused to die for it. He'd been on the streets as long as he could remember. Fourteen years, and he wasn't dead yet.

Brecht, the boy following him, was the father of a new family. Which was why they kept trying to get the infamous Caelan to join his ranks. Get him, you'd be bumped up on the ladder quick as that.

Caelan stopped walking and turned. Sure enough, there was Brecht, his family of littles tagging along behind him.

"Hullo, Brecht," Caelan said, flashing him a smile. He had a good smile. All teeth and dimples. It was a smile that would put a chill down your back.

Brecht got straight to the point. Caelan liked that about him.

"Join my family," he said.

Caelan sighed, all dramatic-like, making a show of it.

"Always the same thing. What do you expect me to say?"

"I know what you should say. You've been a single long enough. Sooner or later, someone's going to get tired of you."

"Sorry," Caelan said. "I've never had a family of any kind, and I don't plan on getting one now, especially a green one like yours. I don't work well with others."

He knew what was coming next. Brecht was not the first one to come recruiting. When he refused, they switched their tune. Two ways to prove yourself on the streets: get enough bigs that no one dared hit you, or beat down so many others that your reputation precedes you. When the first option failed, the fathers would resort to the second, giving the refuser a good thrashing.

Brecht nodded, solemn. "Well then." He raised his fists and took a step closer to Caelan.

Caelan wasn't a big, exactly. He was skinny, lanky. But quick. He tilted his head to the side and waited for Brecht to approach him, not so much as lifting his own hands.

Brecht came fast, rushing towards him and swinging his arm forward.

Brecht didn't see Caelan pull out his knife until it was already in his gut.

He stopped, looked down, looked back up into Caelan's eyes. Caelan gave him another smile and pulled his knife free. Brecht made a gurgling noise as he went down. He would die slow, and Caelan didn't feel like hastening the process.

He turned his gaze on the littles. They stood there, staring.

"Orphans again, I see," Caelan said. "Sorry about that. Find yourself a new father. Won't take long. You're all able-looking." A lie. They would likely be dead within two weeks.

He used the hem of his shirt to clean the blood off his knife and began to walk away, down the alley, past them. They parted for him.

Caelan had killed Brecht for three reasons.

First, his was a new family, without alliances. No one would look for revenge.

Second, all of the children in the gang besides Brecht himself were littles. They, too, couldn't mete out the justice Caelan no doubt deserved.

And third? Well, the third reason was simple. Caelan liked killing. There was a sweetness to it you couldn't get anywhere else. Power, that's what it was. He liked to be in control. The master of life and death. Oh yes. He liked that.

As he walked away from the alley, he heard a pair of feet rushing after him. Drawing his knife again, he spun about and took a stance. But it was only a little. And he knew this little.

"Caelan!" the boy called.

Caelan dropped from his stance and slipped his knife away. He didn't wait for the boy to catch up to him. Rowan. This particular little had been following him for a while now.

But Rowan reached him anyway.

"Caelan, that was amazing!" he said.

Something in his tone irked Caelan. Unbridled adoration. You'd expect it to cater to his pride, but instead, it made him feel sickened somehow. Was being worshiped by the weak a compliment or an insult? He thought about knifing the boy. But no, he wasn't worth it.

He kept walking, and Rowan blathered on.

"I can't believe you killed him! He was so big. I mean, I knew you would beat him, but I didn't think you could do it so quick!"

"I can do anything," Caelan said, shrugging.

"Really?"

"Yes."

The boy considered that for a moment. Then his eyes lit up.

"Could you be a dragon rider?"

Caelan raised an eyebrow.

"Why?"

"There's an elf, here, in Dras-Leona! I heard it from Petyr. He said it had a dragon egg and that it was looking for someone to hatch it. He said that they'd already been to Teirm and not found anyone, but you could do it, couldn't you?"

"A dragon egg?" He scoffed. "Petyr was pulling your leg, Rowan. There's none left."

"He wasn't!" Rowan insisted. "I saw it. It's in the square now."

Caelan furrowed his eyebrows. A dragon egg? Was it true? He didn't think Rowan would lie to him. If it was true—

This could be his chance. A chance at real power, true power. A chance to get off the streets. Get off the streets? Oh, he would do more than that! If it was true.

"Take me," he said, coming to a decision.

"You'll do it, then?" Rowan asked, wide-eyed. "You're going to be a rider?"

Caelan stopped, turned to him. "I can damn well try," he said, grinning.


	6. Chapter Five: The Ambivalent One

Chapter Five

The Ambivalent One

Jeyne bit into her pear. Ripe, almost too ripe. The juice ran down her chin, and she jutted her head forward, making a little "mm!" of surprise, then swallowed and wiped away the liquid with the back of her hand.

"Nice one," Caer said, a smirk plastered across his face.

Jeyne gave a small laugh, and more juice ran down from her open lips.

"You're disgusting," said Eoin, shaking his head. But he was grinning.

"Sorry." Jeyne wiped her mouth again and took another bite.

"All right, that one," Caer said, pointing to a young man in fancy clothes walking down the crowded street. "Eoin?"

"Don't know. Merchant?"

"Boring," said Caer. "All your brains have gone to your goatee, my friend. And Jeyne?"

"Soldier," she said.

"With those clothes? Try again."

"I don't know." She leaned against the wall and took a better look. "General-soldier? I told you I was terrible at this game."

"What is he then?" Eoin asked.

Caer gave the man an appraising once-over.

"Innkeep," he said at last, with a stern nod.

"Must be a big inn," Eoin said.

With a grin, Caer said, "Yes, it is. It's three stories tall, and it's called 'The Harpy's Flagon.'"

"Hang on." Eoin held up a finger. "I've heard of that. You're cheating; you actually knew who he was! This game's supposed to be about observation."

"Yes, so I observed who he was. Just because I knew doesn't make it cheating."

"Yes it does!"

Jeyne listened to them bickering while she watched the people passing by.

"Enough!" Eoin said, grabbing Caer's shoulders and pretending to shake him. "I'm bored. Let's do something else."

"Like what?" Caer asked.

Eoin scratched the scraggly hairs that he had managed to grow around his chin after several months of trying.

But Caer answered his own question. "By the way, did you hear about the egg?"

"Egg?" Eoin raised an eyebrow. "What egg?"

"The dragon egg. They say an elf brought it here. They say they're looking for someone to hatch it."

"How do you hatch a dragon egg?" Eoin asked.

"Sit on it?" suggested Jeyne.

"You touch it. If you're the right person, the dragon chooses you. And you become a rider. Like that Eragon."

Caer looked from Eoin to Jeyne and back again.

"So?" said Eoin.

"So, we could try out! Like I said, all you have to do is touch it."

Jeyne and Eoin glanced at each other.

"What if we got picked, though?" said Eoin. "We'd have to leave our families."

Jeyne pursed her lips. Leave her family. She thought about her mother and her mother's new husband, Ciaran. Ciaran, who did nothing but sit around all day and make his wife cook for him. Ciaran, who, for some reason, Jeyne's mother loved with all her heart.

"They say that there's a big pouch of coins that goes to the family of whoever's chosen. To compensate them for losing a child."

Eoin hesitated. "You seriously think we stand a chance?"

Shrugging, Caer said, "Probably not. But let's try!"

They looked to Jeyne.

"Eh," she said. "Why not?"

"Yes!" Caer shouted, jumping to his feet and taking a few steps towards the road. When he noticed they weren't following, he turned back and said, "Well come on, then."

"Now?" Eoin said. "We haven't even—"

"Do you want someone else to hatch the egg while we're here talking? Come on!"

With a sigh, Jeyne took another bite of her pear and stood. She caught up to Caer and began walking. After a moment's pause, she heard Eoin's footsteps as he ran after them.

"You know we're not going to be chosen," Eoin said, coming to stand next to Jeyne.

"So?" said Caer. "It's something to do."

"Something to do," Jeyne repeated, chuckling a bit. "Right. Let's go make some bad decisions."


	7. Chapter Six: The Hatchings

Chapter Six

The Hatchings

**Tyr**

Tyr tried to stop himself from tapping the toe of his boot against the ground. The leather alone was worth more than most peasants would make in six months, and he didn't want to risk scuffing it. But, as he drew closer to the front of the line, he gave up and let his foot do as it pleased. If all went well, his father would be too happy with him to be angry. If all went well.

It was a simple enough task: touch an egg. But that was the problem—the simplicity. There was no clever way to do it, no trick, no cheat. He could do it no differently from anyone else waiting in line. They would touch the egg. He would touch the egg. But only the dragon could decide.

The girl in front of Tyr shifted, and at last, he could see it. The egg. He took a deep breath, held it a moment, and let it out.

It was big. That was his first thought. More like a stone than an egg. A deep purple stone, inlaid with veins of white and flecks of gold. He looked at it long and hard, then closed his eyes.

He almost left then. Something was strange; something was wrong. He was having doubts. He was doubting himself, yes. That was not unusual. But, in doubting himself, he was doubting his father, his father's judgment of him. His father had called him strong, but what if he was wrong? This thing, this egg, it was beautiful. So beautiful that Tyr could not believe it, could not believe he would be chosen.

But his father had told him he had to do this. And so he would.

"Tyr!"

A cry came from the watching crowd, and a woman ran forward, towards the children in line for the test. Towards him.

Tyr breathed out sharply through his nose.

"Tyr!" shouted the woman. She reached him, grabbed his hand, tried to pull him out of line. "Tyr, don't do this."

Tyr jerked away from the woman.

"Mother," he hissed, trying to draw as little attention as possible. "Go away."

His mother had no such reservations. Her voice was shrill and high, echoing across the city square. "Tyr, please, you don't have to. You don't have to do this. You don't have to leave."

He sighed, glanced around at the onlookers, and touched her shoulder. "Don't worry. Father said—"

"I don't care what he said!" she said. "He's in jail, Tyr; he's not here."

"But I can help him. I can get him out with this."

"I don't care!" she said again. "I want you to stay here. I want you to stay with me."

"But Father—"

"You don't always have to do what he tells you, Tyr! He's not a god!"

"Mother, people are looking."

"Tyr, please!" she begged. "Please don't go!" The shoulder beneath his fingers shook with sobs.

"I might not even be chosen. Just let me try. If I'm not chosen, I'll stay."

She glared at him, her lower lip trembling. "And if you are chosen?"

He squeezed her shoulder once, then turned away.

The girl in line ahead of him stepped forward to try her luck with the egg. Tyr didn't know whether his mother was gone or not, but right now, it didn't much matter. His foot was still tapping on the ground, making a little cloud of dust in the air.

The girl touched the egg. She picked it up, cupped it in her hands. He waited, holding his breath.

Nothing happened. The elf standing behind the egg's pedestal reached out and touched the girl's hands with gentle fingers.

"Wait, it's not done yet!" the girl said. But she let the elf lead her hands back onto the pedestal. She placed the egg on the cold stone, looked at it for a moment longer, then walked away.

And it was Tyr's turn. He took a slow step forward. The egg was right there, in front of him, sitting, shining in the sun.

* * *

**Ilian**

Ilian was the youngest in line. He knew all the children in his hometown of Reavstone, a small village in the south-most part of Surda. Most of them were older than him, and the ones who weren't were too young to be considered. Yes, he was the youngest, so he was the only one who had a family member with him. His sister Trianna stood next to him, gripping his hand. Her nails were digging into his skin, but he didn't want to pull away. They stood in silence, staring ahead at the egg that sat only a few feet before them.

It was a beautiful thing, the most beautiful thing Ilian had ever seen. It was the color of sunset, the kind of sunset you see only once in a lifetime: rays of rich oranges and reds, shot through with speckles of white and yellow. It was light and fire and life all mixed together and held in a glass oval, swirling around so strong that it burst through the glass like flares of laughter.

Ilian could not stop watching it. He walked forward, step by step, without noticing. And it was only when Trianna began to speak that he snapped back into himself.

"Ilian," she said. "You know how to use magic. You know how to control your mind. You can do this."

A chill ran down his spine, and he tightened his clasp on Trianna's hand.

"I can't." He said it quietly, more to himself than anyone else.

"Listen," Trianna said, kneeling down and putting her lips to his ear. "When you were asleep last night, I cast a spell. It will make the dragon choose you."

His eyes widened, and he looked at her.

"So you don't have to worry. It _will_ choose you."

"Really?" he asked.

She nodded and pushed him forward, towards the egg.

It was his turn.

* * *

**Caelan**

Rowan led him through the winding streets of Dras-Leona to the square, the city's heart. Caelan had always done his best to steer clear of it. When the old king was in power, it had been the center of Alagaesia's slave trade, and they weren't picky about who they chose. But the new queen had gotten rid of all that, and Caelan was none too sad to see it go.

"It's there," Rowan said, pointing. He, too, seemed reluctant to enter the crowd. Old habits die hard.

Caelan walked forward, through the people. Rowan was at his back. At last, he cleared the mob and came out into the square. A line of children worked its way across the square. It ended at a pedestal. Standing by the pedestal was what Caelan assumed was an elf. He had the pointy ears and graceful stature, at least. And on the pedestal….

A hand stopped him, pushing backward against his chest. Caelan looked up. A guard stood before him.

"We don't want no urchins here, boy," the guard said, pushing Caelan back again. "We want riders."

Caelan gave the guard a smile and reached into his pocket. With a flip of his fingers, he tossed a coin at the man.

He knew the ways of the streets. If there was one thing guards loved more than beating children, it was gold. So he had foreseen this problem. As he was passing through the mass of people, he was also slipping his hands into purses. It didn't require much effort to be a thief in a crowded place.

The guard caught the coin and held it up to the sky. It shone yellow in the sunlight. And with that, he stepped out of Caelan's way.

Caelan joined the line of children and looked again at the egg. There are things in this world that words cannot describe without giving insult. Beauty had never much impressed Caelan. But this? It made emotion, something he had long since thought was dead, rise in his throat.

It was the deepest of blues, dark, but not murky. Little tendrils of black braided around it here and there, branching out and fading away. Clear and pure, like the ringing of a bell. Clear and pure and so unlike Caelan.

And he knew that he was not worthy, knew he would never be worthy.

But he would try nonetheless.

Quick enough, it was his turn.

* * *

**Jeyne**

"It's beautiful," Eoin said when they saw the egg.

Caer shrugged. "I guess."

Jeyne looked at him out of the corner of her eye with a soft smile. He would never admit it, she knew, but Caer was probably more affected by the egg than Eoin. She could tell from the way he said it: too nonchalant, too casual.

"It is," she agreed.

And it truly, truly was.

It was a rich brownish-gold, the color of mead in the sun. She could almost taste its sweetness.

They got in line, Caer first, then Eoin, then Jeyne.

They stood in silence, looking at the egg. This had begun as a joke, something to pass the time. But it was more than that now. It was a chance, a hope. She didn't even know why.

When it was Caer's turn at last, he reached out with eager fingers and grasped the egg. Jeyne almost laughed at the way his muscles flexed; he was showing them off for a dragon that could not see him.

But he was not chosen.

Eoin went next. He was tentative, hesitant. He didn't pick up the egg, just touched it with the tips of his fingers.

Nothing happened.

And then it was her time.

* * *

**Tyr**

He reached out and took it. He could see his face reflected on its purple surface. It was smooth, perfectly smooth. It felt good to touch, like silk. Like cool water on a hot day. And he forgot his fears, forgot his doubts. In their place came certainty.

* * *

**Ilian**

Trianna's words played in his mind as he touched the egg. A spell. She had cast a spell on him to make the egg choose him. So really, there was nothing to worry about. He smiled as he looked at the egg, holding it as a witch would hold a crystal ball, gazing into it.

* * *

**Caelan**

He picked it up with sweaty hands. He realized that he was smudging mud on the beautiful colors and almost put the egg back down. Who was he to dirty this beautiful thing? And then he saw that it was not mud on his hands, as he had thought. It was blood. The blood of the boy he had just killed. Brecht's blood. He sighed. Now that—that was more like him. Blood had its own sort of beauty.

* * *

**Jeyne**

She saw the fingerprints of her friends still clinging to the egg as she picked it up and studied it. But she did not wipe them off. And she would not wipe off her own when she was done. They would remain as the marks of those past, those rejected, until new hands eventually rubbed them away.

* * *

It's a strange thing, the hatching of a dragon. None can predict its time, its catalyst. But it comes when it must, when it is needed. It comes when it senses the rightness and warmth of its rider. And these four dragons were needed. And these four dragons sensed their partners. And these four dragons came.

* * *

**Tyr**

The egg began to shake in his hands, but he held it steady and returned it to the pedestal. A crack appeared on its surface. Then another. And another. All at once, it shattered, sending little pieces of shell flying.

Before him stood a dragon. It looked up at him with shining eyes, and its whole body seemed to hum.

Tyr felt as though he were in a dream, as though none of this was real. He reached out to touch the dragon's scaly forehead.

The moment his hand made contact with it, an electric shock ran from his fingertips throughout his body. Pain, raw and red, paralyzed him, tugging at his nerves. He fell forward, hitting the pedestal and rolling off it, and a scream ripped itself from his throat. A hand touched his shoulder, held him steady as his body jerked and twitched. Murmurs shot through the crowd behind him, and he fought to control his flailing limbs. He would not be degraded like this.

But, as suddenly as it came, the pain vanished, leaving him aching on the ground.

Slowly, he got to his feet, trembling, gripping the pedestal for support. The elf in front of him helped him up.

He looked at the dragon again. It blinked back at him, unfurling its great wings.

The elf took Tyr's hand. He pulled away, affronted, but the elf said, "Show me."

Tyr looked down at his palm. There, shining in the sun, was a silvery circle emblazoned on his flesh. He looked at the elf, then held out his hand to show him.

"Argetlam," the elf said.

Tyr watched the elf, mouth open slightly.

"Does this mean…?" he trailed off.

"You are a rider now."

Tyr's eyes widened, and he looked back at the dragon. And all at once, he was smiling, beaming. He turned around, searching for his mother in the crowd. But she wasn't there. No, in the back was a woman resembling her, but she was walking away. She looked to be sobbing, her head in her hands. Tyr took a step forward, towards her. But then she was gone. He stared. At last, he turned back around. He reached out again and petted the dragon's head, and no pain came this time. The dragon rubbed itself against his hand.

He had done it. He had done it! He was a rider! A dragon rider! His father had been right. He was strong, strong enough for this. And now his father would be freed and restored to his former position.

The dragon flapped its wings and jumped onto Tyr's shoulder.

"Argetlam," said the elf. "There is a ship waiting for you in the harbor."

"Don't I get to say goodbye?" Tyr asked.

"We must make haste."

Tyr glanced back towards the castle. His father was there, beneath the spires and towers, in the dungeon. But someone would tell him. And he would be proud.

With that, the elf led Tyr off.

* * *

**Ilian**

The first crack came as a surprise. Ilian jolted back, nearly dropping the egg as a piece of shell flew towards his face. Bit by bit, the shell crumbled away. And beneath it was an orange dragon.

Ilian gasped as his left hand brushed against its flank. A bolt of lightning seemed to strike him. The dragon leapt from his hands to the pedestal. He fell backwards. But someone was there, holding him up. Trianna. He let himself lean against her, waiting for the agony to pass. And when it did, she pulled his shaking body into a tight hug. He smiled weakly, his lips trembling.

She released him, and he swayed on his feet. But he had enough strength to turn around and raise his palm for the elf to see. On it was the white gedwey ignasia.

The elf nodded. "Argetlam," he said.

Argetlam. Silver-hand. He had done it. He was a dragon rider.

Trianna's spell had worked.

Ilian looked at the dragon. Its scales shone like the sun. He smiled at it.

"Ilian," said his sister from behind him. "Go."

He turned and looked up at her. She smiled at him and put a gentle hand on his shoulder. It was the most affection she had ever shown him. He wondered if it would be all right of him to ask for one last hug.

But before he could, the elf said, "Come, Argetlam."

"Goodbye," he said to Trianna.

"Goodbye, little brother."

* * *

**Caelan**

Caelan was staring at the blood when the egg began to shake. He put it back on the pedestal without thinking. Just in time, too. A crack appeared, growing and growing, until the egg split in half. The shell opened, falling away to reveal a dark blue dragonling. It opened its eyes and looked at him.

Caelan was silent for a moment, staring at it. Then he threw back his head and laughed, long and hard.

All at once, he stopped. The dragon was still looking at him with quiet and solemn eyes. He grinned at it and reached out to pet its head.

A sharp pain hit his hand when he touched the dragon, and he jerked back, screaming. He fell to the ground. With a twitching hand, he searched for his knife on instinct, biting down on his tongue to keep from making any more noise. What was this, this torture?

At last, at last, it stopped. He stood up and looked at the elf, narrowing his eyes.

"What was that?" he asked.

In answer, the elf pointed to his hand. He turned it over, stared at it. There was a silver moon on his palm.

He glanced at the dragon again. It had intelligence in its eyes. Wisdom. He chuckled again. So young and yet so aware of the world.

They would get along.

Then he thought of something. They must be giving out some sort of compensation for the loss of a child.

"About the money," he said to the elf.

"It will go to your family to compensate them."

So he had been right.

But Caelan had no family. He never had, not that he could remember. He lived alone. If you could call it living. He was alone. So who would they give the money to? No one? It seemed a waste.

It was not from the kindness of his heart, what he said next. No, not from any great generosity on his part. Indeed, he said it on impulse.

"My parents are dead, but you can give it to my little brother, Rowan." He found the boy in the crowd and pointed at him. "He'll be glad to take it."

"It will be done," said the elf. Caelan grinned at him. Let no one say that he was ungrateful. He would always pay his debts.

* * *

**Jeyne**

The egg exploded in her hands. Pieces of shell flew every which way, and Jeyne nearly dropped it, closing her eyes with a curse. But somehow she held on.

She barely had time to open her eyes and look at the small, brownish-gold dragon sitting in her palms before an icy pain shot through her. Hands caught her as she fell backwards, and her mouth opened wide in a scream.

When it finally passed, she stood again. The dragon had jumped back to the pedestal before she had fallen. It looked at her with mossy green eyes. She realized that she wasn't breathing.

A cheer went up into the air, and she turned to see Caer and Eoin running towards her from the crowd, whooping and giving her thumbs up. She couldn't move, couldn't smile back.

"Jeyne!" Caer shouted. "I can't believe it!"

"You did it!" said Eoin. "You're a rider!"

Caer reached her and clapped her on the back while Eoin grabbed her hand and lifted it above their heads, making a hooting noise.

The dragon gave a little squawk and jumped onto her shoulder. Eoin let go of her and took several steps back.

She reached up to pet it, and it shot its tongue out to lick her face.

"Gods," said Eoin.

Something occurred to her, and she looked at her friends. "Will you tell my mother?" she asked.

"Damn, I'll tell the whole world," said Caer. Eoin nodded.

"Thanks," said Jeyne.

"Argetlam," the elf said. "We must go."

"Right." Jeyne started off after him, then turned back around. "Goodbye."

"Have fun," said Eoin.

"Be a good girl," said Caer.

She grinned at them. "Well, I can't do both."

"Then just have fun," said Caer.

"I want to hug you two so bad right now," she said.

They came forward and let her throw her arms around them.

"Argetlam." The elf's soft voice came from behind her, and she let her friends go.


End file.
